How the Coat was Won
by witnesstoitall
Summary: A little drabble about how Carol came to be wearing Daryl's coat in the season 3 finale.


**A/N: This was written in response to the ongoing conversations on tumblr about the jacket Carol wore during the finale and how it looked more like a daryl-sized jacket than a Carol-sized one. Specifically, the prompt to write about how she came to be wearing his jacket came from Bottlewish. **

**I do not own The Walking Dead or its characters. **

**Enjoy!**

* * *

They would stay and fight.

But they would make it look like they had run.

Carol bit at her bottom lip as she surveyed C Block. Their sparse belongings, which once remained confined to their packs, had managed to become scattered throughout the cafeteria and adjoining cells. Dishes sat in stacks next to a large bucket of water. Assorted canned goods and sacks of rice and beans filled the shelves. Jackets lay tossed over the backs of chairs, and piles of folded clothing adorned the notched table top. Baby bottles and tiny pastel-colored sleepers were lined up next to the white mail bin labeled in large, sharpie-drawn letters. It was amazing how the small space, from its concrete walls and floor to its rusted bars bolted over every window and doorway, had so decidedly become their home in the months since they'd been there.

Glancing over around at Beth, Hershel and Carl, she nodded. They would be responsible for phase two of their battle plan – the _make it look like they had run_ part.

Without another word, they split up to begin their gathering, sorting and packing. Carl had offered to gather all of Rick and Judith's things once he'd finished his own, and Beth and Hershel soon followed suit with Glenn and Maggie's. Michonne had dropped her single bag in the cafeteria before heading outside to continue fortifying the prison yard.

Which left Carol to collect the things from Daryl's perch.

She almost felt like she was intruding on something terribly private when she stepped into his makeshift quarter and began rolling up the sleeping pad he slept on each night. Next, she folded the grey fleece blanket that was rumpled up nearby. Without thinking, she pressed the material to her face and inhaled. It smelled like the musty mixture of earth and sweat that she so keenly associated with the man, and her pulse hitched in her chest. Quickly shoving the blanket into his pack, she forced away the giddy girlish feeling that had begun simmering in her stomach.

It was difficult to keep her hands from lingering or her mind from wandering as she went through his things, dutifully finding a place for each item inside his pack – several button up, plaid shirts sans the sleeves; a single extra pair of jeans with a tear in the back end where he'd caught them on a bit of fencing; a bottle of lubricant for his bow strings; a tattered paperback copy of _The Case of the Missing Man_ by Jimmie Herron; a bronze, old-fashioned bronze cigarette lighter; a half-smoked pack of Camel Light 100's; a few pairs of mismatched socks; the poncho he'd found over the winter that made him look like a modern-day Man With No Name; a –

Carol's heart skipped a beat and her breath caught in her throat as she picked up a red and purple colored garment that had been stuffed under the poncho.

_Her scarf._

She hadn't seen it since that horrific day when their gates were tampered with and a herd of walkers were lured into the yard; the day that they lost T-Dog and Lori; the day that Daryl, thinking they had lost her as well, had found the tattered piece of material and kept it.

Her eyes filled with tears as she tried to rationalize his reason for hanging on to it for all this time. Maybe he had just tossed it aside and it had just so happened to end up with his things. Maybe there was no deeper reason for it at all.

Or maybe, just maybe, he'd tied some sentimental value to it.

_To her. _

Her mind flickered to the cross that, for all intents and purposes, should have been hers. The cross that he'd put into place and laid a single Cherokee rose on before finding her deep within the tombs of the prison.

The sound of familiar boot steps on the metal stairs leading up to the perch crashed through her thoughts and sent jolt of adrenaline rushing through her. Daryl could never know that she'd seen the scarf – that she knew he'd kept it like some sort of talisman or reminder. Hastily, she shoved the fabric in between two of his already-packed shirts, hoping he didn't pay any thought to how it had gotten there whenever this fight was all over. Her hands scrambled for something, anything, to busy themselves with.

Just as he reached the top of the stairs, they landed on something made of a thick, grey, resilient sort of material and pulled it into her lap. She could almost taste her nerves in back of her throat. She'd never been very good at deception.

"You didn't hafta pack my things," he said from his place surprisingly close behind her.

"It's no trouble," she began, willing her voice not to shake as she spoke, "besides, it was less work than tackling the cafeteria – was going to let Beth get a head start on that one."

She inhaled sharply when she felt him bend down over her and reach an arm around her to take the garment from her lap. She could feel the chill of the outside air hanging on his clothing and the warmth of his body beneath them. She could smell him – the same inherently masculine smell that clung to his blanket – and she couldn't help the shiver that coursed down her spine and settled in her lower abdomen as he stepped around in front of her.

Shaking out what she realized was a trench coat type jacket, Daryl paused. His eyes flicked over her for a moment before narrowing in concern. "You cold or somethin'?"

Her mind didn't have a chance to process his question much less answer before he knelt down in front of her. She swore that she could feel her heart beating in her mouth as she tipped her head up and offered him a questioning look. The line of his lips thinned and turned up into a small smile as he wrapped the grey jacket around her shoulders.

"You should keep this. It's startin' to feel like fall out there, ain't gonna be getting' any warmer in the near future." Shifting his weight back onto his heels, he stood up and extended a hand down to her. "Here."

Carol looked up and met his eyes as she grasped his hand with her own, savoring the rough feeling of his palm against her own.

She knew she should decline his offer – she had a jacket of her own back in her cell, – or at the very least thank him, but words were thick on her tongue. Instead, she smiled and gave his hand a tight squeeze before rising to her feet.

"You sure you won't be needing it?" She managed at last, glancing down at the enormous jacket draped around her thin frame.

Standing less than two feet apart, she knew he must have noticed the blush that was creeping over her face as his eyes flicked over her once more. "Nah, I'll be fine. 'Sides, looks better on you anyhow."

And just like that he slung his pack up onto his back and strode away from the perch, leaving a toasty warm carol in his wake.

* * *

**Notes: The**_** Case of the Missing Man**_** by Jimmie Herron was the book Andrea gave to Daryl to read in 2x06. Camel Light 100's were a speculative effort on mine and HeathenObsession's part as to the type of cigarettes Daryl took from the walker's pocket in 3x13. If anyone has a different, definitive answer, please let me know!**

**I'd love to hear what you thought of this! If you have the time, please consider leaving a review. Thanks!**


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